A Time For Justice hc-1

by Nick Oldham

  When it started, the trial made front-page news across the globe; as it proceeded it was always featured somewhere on page two or three. But it lacked a ‘certain something’, a spark.

  It got that ‘certain something’ over the weekend, which blasted it right back to the headlines.

  Firstly, all the jury members had their houses fire-bombed. No one was injured, but much damage was done and worry caused. Speculation was rife: would the next step be the taking of a juror’s life? Would there have to be a re-trial?

  Secondly it got that something that made the whole trial really come to life.

  It got a personality.

  It got Henry Christie.

  He was exposed.

  Carried initially by the News of the World it was a tale that caught the public’s imagination.

  Henry’s life and times were laid bare for all to see.

  His drinking was dredged up. His womanising. His adultery. His violent temper. His marriage collapse. His nervous breakdown. All slit open for the world to see and drool over.

  Hero Cop’s Sex and Drink Binge! screamed the headline.

  Henry, who had always thought himself to be Mr Very Average, had become newsworthy.

  All thanks to the relentless digging of a female American journalist called Lisa Want, on special assignment to the News of the World.

  Henry’s Sunday was spent alone with the more highbrow newspapers. He took the Sunday Times and the Sunday Telegraph, which were delivered. He rose at nine, prepared a pot of coffee and warmed up two Sainsbury’s croissants before settling down to three blissful hours of uninterrupted reading.

  It was his Sunday ritual.

  At 12.30 p.m. he switched on the TV to watch the Grand Prix. The phone rang.

  It was FB. His opening words were, ‘What the fuck have you done, Henry? Talking to the fucking gutter press! Have you gone stark staring bonkers?’

  ‘ Hold on,’ Henry cautioned him. ‘What the hell are you on about?’

  FB reduced himself from a boil to a simmer and explained.

  Henry put the phone down as FB finished. It rang again immediately. A journalist from a rival newspaper introduced himself. Henry told him where he should get off and slammed the phone down — but not before he heard the man offer him five figures for an exclusive.

  The phone rang again.

  ‘ I have just told you to fuck off,’ bawled Henry.

  ‘ Henry. It’s me, Kate.’

  ‘ Oh, Jeez. Sorry.’

  ‘ Have you seen the newspapers today — in particular the News of the World?’ she asked coldly. ‘Our marriage is splashed all over for everyone to see. Our private life, Henry.’ She was obviously very upset and close to tears. ‘I honestly thought we were near to… to getting back together. But this! This! It changes everything as far as I’m concerned. How could you? Oh Christ, how could you?’

  ‘ Hang on, Kate. I haven’t done anything. I haven’t spoken to any journalist — not one. And I haven’t seen the paper yet, either… so, look, give me half an hour, will you? Please. I’ll go and get a copy, read it, then phone you back, OK?’

  ‘ Very well,’ she said quietly in a way that gave Henry a shiver.

  Henry closed his eyes as he replaced the receiver. He’d had no idea that Kate was thinking about getting back with him. To hear that and to have the prospect dashed in the same sentence was gut-wrenching. The phone rang again.

  He picked it up, shouted, ‘Go fuck yourself,’ slammed it back down, then left it off the hook and dashed out to the newsagents.

  He purposely did not open the newspaper until he got back to the fiat. He poured himself a coffee, sat down at the small kitchen table and then opened it.

  The story was plastered over pages three and four.

  Henry gasped.

  The headlines were bad enough in themselves. The story below made him cringe with embarrassment.

  There was a still photo which showed him assaulting the TV reporter on the banks of the River Ribble. That illustrated his violent streak.

  The remainder of the story was made up from an interview with Natalie which detailed their affair, their sexual exploits — ‘He was insatiable’ she said — and their final acrimonious split. ‘I couldn’t live with a broken man’ she claimed, ‘and anyway, he dumped me. He used me then tossed me aside.’ She talked quite extensively about his nervous breakdown and his terrible dreams. Henry hoped she had been well paid for this, because she’d need the money when she got sacked

  … he hoped. There were a couple of photographs from his time with Natalie. They’d been snapped by her friend when he’d been drunk and was drooling pathetically over Natalie. Henry winced when he saw them. They made him look just like he was — a man making an utter fool of himself over a younger girl.

  It didn’t stop there.

  There was also a piece about Henry and Karl Donaldson taking Natalie and her friend out. Entitled My Night of Sex With FBI Man, it detailed Donaldson’s exploits that night too, including the mystery lady banging on his hotel door in the early hours, demanding to see Donaldson and interrupting their lovemaking. The woman wasn’t identified, but was described as a ‘high-ranking officer in the Lancashire Constabulary who was, at the time, running a major investigation’. It went on to describe Donaldson, naked, chasing her down the hotel corridor. Henry knew it was a night Donaldson would rather forget, especially now that he’d made his peace with Karen.

  Then there was the photo of Henry’s two distraught-looking daughters taken a few weeks before, following the shooting incident in the Lake District.

  ‘ Bitch,’ uttered Henry, shaking his head, reading on.

  It got worse.

  The scorned cleaner Maureen had her say, too. Her story made an ideally tacky footnote to the whole thing. Another ‘used and abused after a night of sexual ecstasy, a night when I did things for him I’d done for no other man’. For no other man that night, snorted Henry. There was a picture of her in her overalls with a mop and bucket, looking as ugly as sin. God knows how I ever fucked her, he thought bitterly.

  The worst of it was that he hadn’t told Kate.

  Miss Lisa ‘Shit-Face’ Want had been very busy indeed. Some of her facts weren’t exactly spot on and there was a great deal of literary exaggeration, but all in all it turned out to be a much better profile than she’d promised.

  Henry rushed to the toilet and vomited.

  He hung over the pan, spitting and slobbering, almost crying. This, once more, was where his life had gone.

  Dave August spent a very subdued weekend, returning to work at eight on Monday morning. Everyone’s eyes seemed to be on him, as though they knew. He tried to shrug the feeling off: he was the Chief Constable, after all. It was only natural that he should be the centre of attention.

  Jean was at her desk, sorting correspondence. He bade her a jovial good morning and she was glad to see that her boss had rediscovered some of his lost friendliness. His mood over the last week had started to put a crisp edge on her nerves.

  ‘ Shall I make tea?’ she suggested before he reached his office door.

  ‘ Most certainly, Jean. Best drink of the day,’ he replied.

  She got up, smiling, and left. He paused with one hand on the door handle. Taking stock of himself, he turned it and confidently shoved the door open.

  Everything was as it should have been. There was nothing untoward in the post or on his desk.

  August sighed with relief.

  He got the phone call at 9.05 a.m.

  Henry Christie and Karl Donaldson arrived at Lancaster Castle together. Donaldson was driving, even though Henry had had his plaster removed first thing that morning and his wrist felt OK, if a little weak.

  They were greeted by a crowd of eager journalists and photographers who’d been herded behind barriers by the police. Questions and flashes assaulted the ears and eyes of the two detectives. They held up their hands to shield their faces and said ‘No comment’ to all the enqui
ries.

  Once inside the building, Donaldson turned to Henry and said, ‘Fame at last, pal,’ with a grin.

  Henry couldn’t help but laugh.

  They both submitted themselves to the search procedures and entered the court.

  Then they went to hunt for Lisa Want — but she was noticeable by absence.

  Henry entered the witness-box at 10.30 a.m. on Wednesday. He took the Bible in his right hand and said, ‘I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing the truth.

  My name is Henry James Christie. I am a Detective Sergeant with Lancashire Constabulary, currently on the CID at Blackpool. Previously I was seconded to the Regional Crime Squad, also based in Blackpool. ‘

  The QC for the prosecution stood slowly up. He shuffled his papers.

  The court was hushed and expectant.

  Henry had a quick look round.

  He saw that Lisa Want had suddenly appeared in the press-box. He looked at the jury. They seemed to be good, decent people.

  Then his eyes locked with Hinksman’s.

  Hinksman was fondling his chin thoughtfully with the fingers of his gilt hand, gazing at Henry. As Henry looked at him, Hinksman almost imperceptibly drew his first finger across his throat in an unmistakable gesture.

  Henry allowed himself a slight sneer.

  The Judge had seen the exchange. She made no comment on it, but noted it down.

  The QC coughed and began to take Henry through his evidence.

  Henry felt he had done well. The jury were obviously on his side, sitting there open-mouthed with anticipation and sympathy.

  As he drew to a close the prosecuting counsel thanked Henry and said, ‘Would you please wait there, Sergeant. I’m sure my learned friend will wish to ask you some questions.’

  He sat down and handed over to Graham.

  Graham, with his half-glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose, stood up slowly, adjusting his robes as he did so.

  Henry knew of his reputation — well paid, defender of rich villains and celebrities, ruthless — and was on guard immediately.

  Graham pushed his spectacles up his nose to the bridge, then allowed them to slide back down again to the tip. He pursed his lips into a pucker. He nodded at Henry and said, ‘Sergeant,’ by way of a greeting.

  Henry nodded back apprehensively. This is not going to be easy, he thought. Why don’t you just get on with it instead of fannying around, you bastard.

  Graham’s lips then went tight across his teeth, like a dead man’s smile.

  ‘ I’m very pleased to see, as is the court, that you have recovered from your injuries.’

  ‘ Thank you,’ said Henry. He realised that this would probably be about as humane as Graham got.

  ‘ You certainly have been in the wars,’ he commented. ‘It’s a wonder you made it here.’ A titter went round the court. ‘You have been through a very traumatic time, physically and mentally.’ Though this was a statement it was phrased as a question — but Henry chose not to answer it. If you want to ask me questions, he thought, then ask and I’ll answer.

  When nothing was forthcoming, Graham added, ‘Isn’t that so?’

  ‘ Yes,’ said Henry simply.

  ‘ Right, Sergeant, if I may, I’d like to take you back to the night in question — the night, in fact, when you shot my client.’

  Suddenly it was as though Henry was on trial.

  Henry stood stock still. He avoided eye-contact with Graham; he knew that would be disastrous. Eye-contact led to verbal battles; once these battles were joined, the officer giving evidence had usually lost the war, unless he was very experienced and clever. Henry had given evidence many times, but was aware he was no match for a devious, slimy barrister when it came to word-games.

  He desperately wanted to say, ‘And the night when your client killed a whole bunch of people,’ but he didn’t.

  He decided to stick to his usual courtroom strategy: keep it simple, don’t stray from the written statement, don’t lose your cool, don’t answer back. Tell the truth — but if a lie has to be told, remember what you said.

  ‘ You were on a surveillance operation that night, you say, tailing a man who was eventually shot in front of you.’

  Henry said nothing.

  Graham then knew he would have to ask direct questions.

  ‘ Is that correct, officer?’ he asked stonily.

  ‘ It is,’ nodded Henry.

  ‘ And you followed this man into a public house in Blackpool, the — ’ and here Graham read out the name of the establishment from his brief. ‘Did you drink any alcohol when you were in this bar?’

  ‘ Er… I can’t remember,’ said Henry.

  ‘ Wouldn’t you have stood out like a sore thumb if you’d been in there without a drink in your hand? You were, after all, undercover. ‘

  ‘ I may have had a soft drink,’ Henry admitted. ‘I was on duty and I don’t drink on duty.’

  ‘ So, no alcohol?’

  ‘ No,’ said Henry. He actually remembered buying a bottle of Bud but wasn’t going to reveal that.

  Graham nodded, not impressed.

  ‘ When you followed this man and his associates out of the public house, you stated that you lost sight of them and then were dragged down an alley. Is that correct?’

  ‘ Yes.’

  ‘ Can you describe the alley?’

  Henry thought a moment. ‘It was about twenty feet wide and a hundred and fifty feet long, coming to a dead end. The exact measurements are on a plan, which I believe you have a copy of.’

  ‘ It is your recollections the court is interested in, not a map,’ said Graham haughtily. ‘Where exactly was this alley?’

  ‘ Between the pub and the next building along, which is a guest house, I think.’

  Graham’s mouth pursed as he composed his next set of questions. ‘What time of night was it?’

  ‘ About nine forty-five.’

  ‘ Remind the court, officer — what month was it?’

  ‘ October.’

  ‘ October,’ said Graham ruminatively, drawing out the word, as though chewing the cud. ‘Quite late on in the year, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘ It is a fact,’ said Henry, deadpan, ‘that the twentieth of October is quite late in the year.’

  A couple of the jury giggled. There was a slight release in tension. Graham shot them a hard, warning glance. He did not like it. But he took control of himself and smiled good-naturedly, accepting the joke at his expense. He turned back to Henry, his features assuming the look of a hunter poised to kill.

  ‘ So, getting on towards winter. Nights drawing in…’

  Impulsively, Henry cut in: ‘If you’d like me to say that it was dark — yes, it was dark.’ He regretted his words immediately, not only because he’d spoken otherwise than in answer to a question, but because courts are very formal, traditional, patient places and by his impatience he had just managed to rub everyone up the wrong way, including Judge and jury. Not a good move.

  Graham allowed himself the flicker of a smile, just the corners of his mouth twitching. Only Henry saw it.

  Graham was back in charge of the interaction.

  He said, ‘I would be obliged if you could refrain from jumping the gun, Sergeant.’ He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head at Henry, as if to say, ‘Do you understand, pal?’

  Henry nodded. ‘My apologies,’ he mumbled.

  Graham paused and perused his papers, allowing time for everyone in the court to settle and for Henry to become agitated. A pause can be a good weapon, if used correctly.

  ‘ So, it was a dark night,’ confirmed Graham. ‘What was the weather like?’

  ‘ Clear and fine.’

  ‘ Could you see down the alley?’

  ‘ It was fairly poorly lit and there were a lot of shadows.’

  ‘ Was there any actual lighting in the alley at all?’

  ‘ No.’ At that point Henry began
to see where this was leading and his stomach lurched. He might just conceivably lose this.

  ‘ So, you were dragged into the alley and a vicious fight ensued between yourself and several men. You have graphically relayed details of this struggle whilst giving evidence earlier, and we are all very impressed by your bravery…’

  Just fuck off, Henry thought.

  ‘… so I don’t intend to pursue that. But at the conclusion of this fight, could you remind us what position you were in?’

  ‘ Face up on the ground, surrounded by people who didn’t like me very much.’

  ‘ You also mentioned that you’d received a blow on the head prior to this and that you thought you’d passed out momentarily. Is that correct?’

  ‘ Yes.’

  ‘ How did you feel?’

  ‘ Frightened. ‘

  ‘ No doubt,’ said Graham. ‘Were you pretty dazed too, from the blow on the head?’

  ‘ Actually my head was very clear,’ he said. ‘My body was in a mess physically — but I was thinking very clearly.’

  Graham nodded. Then pounced.

  ‘ You’d been beaten up, bashed about the head and body, quite badly injured, knocked unconscious — and you say you were thinking very clearly?’ Graham barely suppressed a laugh. ‘Do you expect the court to believe that, officer?’

  ‘ I’m a very cool customer in stressful situations,’ said Henry glibly and rather rashly. A complete and utter lie, one which was seized upon ruthlessly by Graham.

  ‘ A cool customer in stressful situations,’ the QC repeated dubiously. ‘Now that is not altogether true, is it… Sergeant?’

  ‘ Yes, it is,’ said Henry without conviction.

  ‘ Well then, perhaps I could remind you of another incident when you showed yourself to be completely uncool in a stressful situation. Such as at the scene of the M6 bombing, of which my client is accused. You actually assaulted and threw a TV reporter down the banks of the River Ribble. Isn’t that so? Not the actions of a man who is, quote “A very cool customer in stressful situations”, are they?’